


Love Bites (Literally)

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:09:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Shoot prompt: Vampire Root. Bonus if they end up in bed</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Bites (Literally)

The night sky stretches above Root, diamond stars beading it like a studded scarf. The moon is full and large, face looking down on her from above and bathing the sidewalk in just enough pale light to see. She sticks to the shadows, body a blur as she darts down back alleys, coming to a stop at the edge of Park Avenue. It's early, only eleven thirty, and she's disappointed to a lack of cars whizzing by.  _I was kinda hoping for a race._

With an annoyed sigh, Root brings a hand to her head, fixing a stray piece of wavy hair as it dangles before her eyes. Her skin catches under the far glow of a streetlamp, and she finds a large laceration on her shirt sleeve- and with it- a deep gash down to the bone. She'd felt something, deemed it a likely scratch, but was obviously wrong. Leaning on the brick wall of the corner shop, Root rolls up her sleeve to reveal a disaster. It's as if her left forearm is made of red and blue wires insulated with brown fiberoptic tendrils, and someone took a chain saw to it. Her pale skin is rimmed with the crimson of blood, but it's coagulated-  _old_.

Bringing her right thumb to her mouth, she touches it against her tongue a moment. Then, pulling it back, she presses her finger to the tip of the wound. She pushes until the pressure becomes painful, then drags the soft of her skin down her arm slowly. Like magic, the skin behind her thumb returns to perfect health, as if she's somehow zipping her flesh back up. There's only one problem: this isn't a party trick.

_Call it one of the perks of being a vampire._

* * *

 

Taking another glance at her tattered sleeve, Root groans, then rolls up the other. _I really liked this shirt,_  she fumes to herself, eyes flashing with red.  _And they haven't sold another one in fifty eight years_. _Even in the after afterlife, Martine is able to get in her say._ Just thinking about the woman, Root's un-pumping blood boils in her veins.

There's a fine line between vampires and killers, and Martine was always Hell bent on crossing it. Rules are in place-  _put there for a damn good reason_ \- yet Martine, like far too many others, decided the rules don't apply. That rules are for the living.

**Rule #1 : Kill and be Killed**

While vampires are created far superior to humans, what the living lack in ability they make up for in numbers.  _If they knew we are out here, they could end us all in a month._ Killing humans is as far from accepted as fish are to outer space. Feed safely and keep them alive- it'd been that way centuries before Root had ever joined this side of the world. However, dark times had been looming, and tensions have been growing with merciless speed. Split in two, the loyalists and the defectors were one breath from war.  _And I just might have declared it._

_Root was wandering through Central Park, concealed by the ebony canopy of leaves. The breeze felt wondrous on her skin, and the sounds of nature amplified a thousand times over were refreshingly soothing. Then, she heard a whisper of a whimper. Human, undoubtedly, and within the mile. Pupils swelling to swallow up all available light, she sped down the paths, weaving in and out of every tree along the way until coming to an abrupt halt before a manmade lake seconds later. In the clearing before the water, Root could make out two figures and an asymmetric heap to the side. Silently padding closer, the moonlight reflecting off the water's calm face, she found Martine._

_She was holding someone twice her size in her hands, fingers curled around the collar of his shirt and mouth tearing into his neck. Root watched, mortified, as his eyes widened, mouth silently screaming out with ineffable agony before going slack. His eyes became glassy, then lost all shine. Lifting her face from him, she gave him a quick one over before tossing him like a used napkin to the growing pile on the grass. The whimpering noise came again, this time much louder, and Root's nerves all went numb._

It's a child.

_The last one left standing was a young girl of no more than twelve, frizzy auburn hair shaking in time with her trembling body; knees knocking and blue eyes pulled wide in horror. She held a small digital camera in both hands, knuckles white around it, yet it never went off. Martine took slow, calculated steps towards her, but she didn't move- too frozen with fear to run._

_"Martine," Root called out, voice teeming with loathing. As if snapped, Martine's head jerked Root's way with impossible speed, revealing lips smeared sloppily with blood._

_"_ Sorry _," she replied in a mock-apologetic tone, fangs glinting like sharpened daggers in the moonlight, "but I'm not_ sharing _."_

 _"Don't_ touch _her," Root warned, voice lowered to a dangerous snarl. As if a response on its own, Martine placed a hand on each of the girl's frail shoulders, and the smell of terror began to circulate in the air._

 _"_ Relax _, honey," Martine cooed, wicked smile on her sinister face. "I'm not going to kill her. Not when she has so much potential- don't you Gen?" Martine ran an icy finger up Gen's neck, pointed nail causing the smallest break in the girl's skin. Gen squeaked, lips pressing together as she scrunched her eyes closed tightly. Root stopped inching forward, Martine's words striking her in a cold, harrowing place._

**Rule #2 : Never Turn a Child**

_Everyone in their society knew young vampires were worse than any natural disaster. They were pureblooded killers with an appetite for murder. They can't help it- too immature to be able to control their new instincts. Stronger than anyone their ages; faster and more agile; and scarier than the devil. It requires about four adults to take down one child- something they were forced to find out the hard way- and swore to never plague anyone with the painstaking task ever again._

_"I know what you're thinking," Martine said with a wry grin. "And I don't_ care _what your rule-abiding cohorts have to say. Things are changing, we aren't going to live in peace forever. This is just..." Martine peered down at Gen with sickly amused eyes, watching the way the child squirmed under her frigid touch. "_ Insurance _." Martine squeezed the girl's arm, and Root heard the_ 'crrrack!' _of her fragile humerus a mere second before she let out a pained shriek. Martine threw her head to the side- it's a wonder Gen's neck hadn't broken as well- then plunged herself down, down, down._

_Faster than a Blackbird, Root was on top of Martine, knocking Gen out of the way with a hair width to spare. Then, the two vampires were on the ground, struggling for control with strength matched blow for blow. Root struck her in the jaw, causing it to snap to the side. A tooth flew out and Martine's eyes flared, their passive maroon eaten away by a red like the blood on her shattered mouth. Wriggling free of Root's grasp, Martine darted to her feet before back handing Root across the face. Head jerking to the right, it gave Martine just enough time to kick her in the ribcage, catapulting her into the tree line. For a moment, Root was disoriented, extraordinary sight muddied and hawk like hearing clogged. Her chest burned, and as she tried to straighten, she could feel the fragments of her ribs clicking against each other. Gritting her teeth and clenching her fists, Root stalked back towards Martine, who was doing just the same. With every step she took, Root could feel her lungs re-inflating, ribs mending their fractures and becoming tougher than before. Just the same, Root watched as Martine brought a hand to her jaw, pushed it back, then let it heal in moments. Stopping mere feet from each other, they stared each other in the eye, peering right into the spots where their souls would've been._

_Martine threw a punch and Root dodged it, using the momentum to place herself behind Martine. In one swift motion, Root's left hand was on Martine's jaw and the right on the back of her head, fingers gripping roughly into her blonde hair._

Snap.

_Vertebrae crackled like Rice Krispie's Cereal as the muscles split one by one, the sensation reminding Root of plucking bass strings. Martine made a gasping noise, but it was too late. Root continued, pulling in a one-eighty motion before yanking upwards. A couple drips of dark, coagulated blood spat onto Root's face as Martine's body dropped to the grass, wide, glassy eyes still staring at Root as she held the head in her hands. Peering at it a moment, Root cocked her head, narrowed her eyes, and dropped it with little thought. Then, with calm settling back into her un-beating heart, Root could smell that wicked stench of fear once again._

_Gazing past Martine's corps, she found Gen shaking like a leaf, teeth chattering as if it were twenty below instead of a mild fifty-three. Stepping over Martine, Root made her way towards Gen with slow, gentile strides. Her eyes softened out of their steely war zone, although they weren't exactly kind._

_"Go home," Root instructed in a soothing but firm tone. "And don't tell_ anyone _what you saw tonight. Understand?" Gen stood motionless, then began a vigorous nod that claimed her entire body. She nodded until Root was sure her eyes would fall out, but stopped the second Root took another step forward. "Stay still," Root commanded, stepping up to the small girl. The closer she came, the more she could smell. The dinner she'd had still on her breath; the soft earth she was drug through to get here; the mildew of a rundown apartment. Bringing her hands with extended slowness towards Gen's arm, Root brought her shoulder and upper arm into her grasp before quickly clicking it back into place. The girl yelped, grabbing her left arm protectively with her right. Tears in her eyes and camera falling to the ground, she backed away before turning and sprinting into the darkness. With a sigh, Root lifted the camera, turned it about in her hands, then tossed it into the water, turning her attention back to Martine's limp form and the other limp forms huddled just behind her._

And now, as the breeze lifts her dark hair and toys with the hem of her shirt, the intoxicating aroma of smoke and burning flesh fills her nose, eyes flickering back to the bon fire of bodies she'd left behind. Tired of waiting for a car to soar by, Root dashes across the street in under a second, then comes to a lackadaisical gate as the darkness consumes her once more.

The wind changes, blowing in from an angle instead of head on, and her eyes close, taking in an extended whiff.  _Something- something smells good._  Sucking in another large gulp of air, her taste buds ignite, mind sorting out each component.  _It's earthy with a sterile hint, sweet like sugar, clean with a little bourbon every now and again, and..._  a soft, indulgent smile creeps onto Root's face.  _AB positive._ Her stomach let off the rolling rumble of hunger, and it seems like ages since the last time Root has eaten anything. Coupled with the fight, her energy is more than depleted, body aching to refuel. Keeping her eyes shut, she rotates herself in the direction of the scent, making a mental map before opening them. A deep red ink drips into her amber irises, the idea of feeding bringing her entire body into a hunting mindset. With inaudible, efficient steps, Root cuts through the dense forest of buildings, scaling chain link fences and brick walls with a single pounce.

At the end of the alleyway, she finds a black gate, solid iron climbing up about five and a half feet high leading to another eight feet of chain link and two dedicated to points on the top. Pressing her cool palms against the equally cool metal, Root lifts her head the smallest bit, peeking out onto East 77th Street. There, just out of reach of the dull street lamp's light, someone stands. Far enough away from the main entrance of the Lenox Hill Hospital to go unnoticed, the short, slender form leans against a set of unused, rusting blue doors. Root looks right- no one coming. Left- a ghost town. Smile curling up a little higher on her lips, Root pushes her hands down on the iron, catapulting over the barrier as if it were a small stone.

She lands without a sound and crosses the road in the same fashion. Drawing in a steadying breath, she focuses in on the figure, eyes locking onto them as she stands only a few feet away. Collecting her thoughts into a tidy row, Root begins to send them out one at a time, feeding them over into the shadow person in a white pharmacy jacket.  _Slow your heartbeat,_  she instructs, soft whisper the result of years training to master the telepathic art. Harold Finch had shown her much time ago- back when she was fresh from the fields- and she'd spent decades honing it to absolute perfection.  _Even breaths; blank mind. Close your eyes- feel tired- sleep a little. Turn your senses off, stand still and just breathe._

"If you're planning on mugging me, you shouldn't stop and think about it so long." Root freezes, the person's voice coming to her in a matter of fact tone. They turn to face Root, and she finds that this mystery person is a woman. Her breath becomes caught in the back of her throat, taking her in. Her silky hair- as dark as night itself- is pulled into an impecable ponytail, showing off her chiseled face. Her coffee eyes are mesmerizing, throwing Root into another world that she could spend the rest of her limitless life exploring. From head to toe she is stunning to say the least, and Root knows that if she'd still had a pulse, now is the day it would have stopped. Root swallows a little harder than usual, mouth feeling uncharacteristically dry as her nerves tingle.

"Uh,  _hello_?" The woman tries again, tone not concerned; but rather annoyed and impatient.  _She has to be a vampire_ , Root thinks, mind working at half speed.  _It's the only explanation. She came here for the same reason I did, and..._ God _she's beautiful._  While it doesn't exactly explain why her telepathy had no effect, she finds it logical to assume some vampires must become immune over time. Shaking her head, she fumbles for words, blurting out the first thing on her mind.

"Are you a vampire?" It's an idiotic question, she knows it the second it escapes her, but it's too late now. This woman plus the smell of that blood being close enough to taste leaves her hopelessly disoriented. The woman's face pulls back in a scowl that question's Root's mental stability.

"No," she responds, and Root becomes visibly taken aback.  _How is it possible?_ "Listen," the woman says, cutting off her thoughts. "If you found an escape route out of the psych wing, good for you, but don't expect  _me_  to do anything about it. You wanna brag to someone, find one of the docs still  _employed_." Root's brain barely processes anything she's said, more focused on the intoxicating sound of her voice than the actual words.

"What?" Rolling her eyes, the woman in the lab coat tears off a plastic name tag from the from the pocket, then holds it up. The font is microscopic, but Root easily dials in her vision, zooming by sixty until the letters stop swimming. _'Dr. Sameen Shaw / MD.'_  Then, it snaps between her fingers, and Root watches each fiber shatter and soar out of sight. Blinking, she brings her vision back to normal, taking Shaw in all over again. "So...  _not_  a vampire?"

Shaw's shoulders drop in contemptuous disbelief, eyebrow raising as she crosses her arms. "I said no. What, are  _you_?" The corner of Shaw's mouth quirks in a barely visible smirk, yet Root can see every detail. She can see each fleck of color in her eyes, and every strand of her hair and all the other breathtaking characteristics. She's never loved having superb vision more. Coughing, Root forces herself to focus on the conversation. _You're not going to get anywhere by sounding illiterate._

" _Maybe_ ," Root responds at last, a coy touch to her tone as she gives Shaw a wink. To her absolute pleasure, it earns a lopsided smile from Shaw. The wind, which had kept itself at bay for a little while, storms through the city once again, funneling down the streets and bouncing off each building. Shaw's hair takes flight as the collar of her coat is disturbed. At once, Root can smell it.  _No. Oh no._

She presses her lips together tight, fighting the red back from her irises as her fangs descend from her gums. Sharp as razor blades, they slice into the fleshy skin of her bottom lip, and she can taste the stale blood that still sits below her skin. Her body begins to hum, a battle between her logic and her instinct clashing like World War III. Her eyes break free from her stiff restraints, focusing right in on Shaw's neck. She watches, transfixed, as Shaw's jugular jumps with each pulse, the fragrance that lured her in before engulfing her now.  _How could I be so blind?_  Her chest tightens, and she almost swears she can feel her heart racing in her chest, trying desperately to keep control of the situation. It's a train driving off a cliff, and the only thing she has to cushion the landing is a feather.

Finally, after seconds that stretch longer than the last half century of her life, the wind returns to the shadows, saving Root as her fangs recede. Shaw, scratching at the back of her neck, looks past Root with cryptic thoughts before sighing.

"Well, as it's custom after getting fired, I'm gonna drop myself down at a bar," Shaw tells her, shimmying off her jacket. Under it, Root finds a form fitting black shirt and likewise jeans, and has to pry her eyes away.

"Mind if I join?" Root questions easily, although her mellow tone reflects none of the fluttering hope in her chest. Shaw says nothing, yet something in her onyx eyes reveals to Root that she is more than welcome. As Shaw starts forward, passing Root in the process with less than an inch of space between them, Root is reminded once more of how hungry she is, and how wonderful Shaw looks and smells and... She stops herself, taking an extended pause.  _I shouldn't have asked,_  Root thinks to herself, although she knows she couldn't have stopped herself if she'd tried. Far too intrigued to let it go, and much too excited to take back her proposal, Root spins smartly on her heel to catch up with Shaw.  _This night is going to be interesting._

_____________\ If Your Number's Up /____________

**Rule #3 : Never, Under any Circumstances, Affiliate with the Living**

The rule runs circles around Root's mind a million times a minute, and she tries hard to push it away. She yanks open the door to the restaurant Shaw'd been walking to, holding her breath as Shaw enters, not daring to let her scent in again. _Never affiliate with the living; you never affiliate with the living._

Her cellphone rings, and pulling it out, she finds Harold Finch's name filling up the screen.

"Hi, Harry," Root coos, stepping into the warm lit place. The walls are all bathed with a light cream color, and the chairs are upholstered in a similar hue. Root gives herself a mental kick, scolding herself for having such forceful thoughts. While she knows Harold can't see the exact thoughts gripping her maniac mind, he can pick up on the fuzzy blurbs of out-of-place emotions.

"Evening Miss Groves," he responds, voice level and calm. Patiently waiting for the small talk to subside. "How are you fairing?"

"I'm fine," she replies, trying to remain upbeat, all the while keeping her voice low as she follows Shaw further into the restaurant. "Calling to say you miss me?"

A small chuckle escapes him, and for the moment, Root can pretend he's not trying to pry at her personal life. A lover of books and an expert in art, Finch's latest fancy fell with electronics; rarely emerging from his paranoid-proof bunker to say hello. Shaw turns to face Root, walking backwards with a flowing ease that says she's been here before. Her eyes light up in question, and Root puts her hand over the receiver.

"Uncle," Root tells her, not knowing what else to say.  _Because, you know, my mentor of eighty-five years and the one who turned me at nineteen is just too cliché for the first date._  The sarcasm in her tone is beat out by the flutter of her heart.  _Is it a date?_

"Who are you with?" Harold asks, and the faint smile on Root's lips shatters. Chest tingling with fraying nerves, Root takes a breath, hoping her voice relays more nonchalantly than she feels.

"Just... someone I bumped into," Root says cryptically, coming to the bar at Shaw's side. She finds a wall made of windows, allowing her to see the New York City Skyline. Every light is like a star that melts into the constellations above, making the difference between the city and the galaxy barely noticeable. In slight awe, she takes a seat to Shaw's side, transfixed on the view.

"She's human, isn't she," Finch deadpans, and Root's feelings of euphoria drain completely. She doesn't even have to question how he knows, yet it still irritates her immensely. "Please don't get any i-"

"Reprimand me later, Harold," Root commands between clenched teeth, lips starting to purse. "I gotta go." Hanging up, she swivels around to face the bar, unsure how to force his phone call from her mind. Yet, with one look at Shaw, it's forgotten.

"So, um..." Root starts, one hand scrunching her hair as her brow furrows, grappling for words. "Do you come here often?" Shaw studies her a moment, perhaps trying to figure out if it's a sincere question or an awful pickup line.

"Not really," she responds at last, looking about the place. A certain glow creeps into the corners of her eyes that Root finds fascinating. So far, she'd been unsuccessful at getting into Shaw's mind, and reading her emotions proved ever the more difficult. It seems like somehow, there's a disconnect between what Shaw feels and what is shown, something that captivates Root entirely. And now, seeing this small outbreak of unconcealed something leaves pleasure coursing through her veins. "My dad brought my mom here on their first date." Root raises a brow, impressed. Shaw doesn't seem to notice, just continues to speak in a slightly distant tone. "Nice place. It's changed names a few times, but the view's still the same."

Root takes her hand from her hair, placing both arms down on the bar as the bartender waits expectantly for their order. They do so listlessly, Root too entrenched with this enigma Sameen to care much about liquor.

"Never caught your name," Shaw says, catching Root off guard.

"Hm?"

"Your  _name_ ," Shaw replies, eyes steadfast on Root. "Got one?" Root smiles, chest relieving its suffocating grip on her heart.

"Root," she answers, and Shaw nods.

"I'm-"

"Sameen," Root interrupts, gaining a curious look from Shaw. "I saw it on your name tag," Root explains, and Shaw's eyes narrow.

"It was dark and you were a couple feet away," Shaw says slowly, and Root wonders if her response was the wrong one. However, before she has time to dig her hole even further, Shaw's scrutinizing glare breaks away and to the glass of bourbon in front of her. She takes a swig, ice cubes clinking in the glass as Root's eyes remain fixed on her mouth.  _Her lips, her jawline, her neck-_

Root throws her gaze to the bar, downing her entire glass without flinching at its acerbic taste. Her mind flitters back to Harold, and how he- as much as she loathes to admit it- knows better than anyone her developing circumstance. In her younger years when he was still teaching her how to survive, he'd taken her to an art gallery after hours, relaying to her a story from his pad locked past.

 _It was 1913 in a small corner of France's Salon D'Automne. It had been just over a century since his turning, yet he looked not a day over twenty-two. He was out with his, at the time, fiancée Grace on one of their countless walks through art museums throughout the country. Yet, unlike those before it, he knew with a sinking heart that this would be the last. Before that week, Rule #3 hadn't yet come into play; however, many of those associated with the living were either killing or getting killed. Either a flash of blind anger would leave the human dead in an instant, or the vampire- perhaps foolishly- told the truth to their counterpart, in which case they were burned to ashes out of fear. As much as Harold felt that neither could ever happen with them, the new guidelines of the rule were clear and blunt._ From this point on, anyone affiliated with the living shall see as follows: The human will be killed, and the vampire punished severely for their actions.  _Taking one look at Grace and her worry-free demeanor, he knew he could never risk her life for his own wishful thinking._

_Instead, he brought her out on this warm, star speckled night to have one last hour with her before leaving. And so, as they strolled through the Salon D'Automne, Harold's head was heavy from trying to come to terms with what was before him._

_'Harold._ Harold _,' Grace had called to him, jarring him from his thoughts. He told Root time and time again how much he missed the sound of her voice. When he peered to her, icy eyes softening behind his glass, she smiled at him. 'Look at this one.' He didn't want to- he only wanted to look at her for all the time he had left. Still, he pried his eyes towards the painting. At first, it seemed nothing more than a cylindric castle on yellow ground. Then, the more he peered at it, the more the details jumped at him. He could see each streak of oil in the vibrant blues, and could feel the icy fingers reaching for him out of the painting's shadows. Glancing down at the tag, it said 'La Tour Rouge.'_

The Red Tower.

 _'It's_ beautiful _,' she'd breathed, hand tightening around Harold's, and he couldn't agree more. The tag revealed a name he'd never heard of before, and knew the man had yet to sell a painting. With the flick of his free hand, he ushered one of the workers over, nodded to it, then paid him the asking price. Looking a little taken aback by his swift manner, the man gave a curious smile before lifting it delicately from the wall and handing it to him. He promptly handed it to Grace; the last memory he had of her being the disbelief on her face and the awe in her eyes. By morning, he was in America, working in a blackened stone building to manage money for the war effort._

_After the excerpt of his life, both he and Root stood before that very painting in silence. As Root looked at it, she saw none of what Harold had described. The vibrant colors had all since faded, and the edges were cracking, revealing the sallow canvas underneath. Yet, looking to Harold and seeing the glow in his eyes, she could almost envision his youth and his happiness as he thrived in a place worlds away from here._

Then, Root couldn't even fathom his adoration for a human. All she remembered of her past life was weak frangibility and ugly inferiority to her current state. But, looking at Shaw, it finally made sense. Shaw is anything but weak or ugly. And, in acknowledging it, she finds herself in some very deep shit.

"Hey? Earth to perky psycho?" Root blinks, and the memory recedes from her minds eye as the restaurant comes back into focus. Root turns to Shaw, furrowing her brow sightly as she forces herself to concentrate. Seeing she finally has Root's attention, she continues, "You zoned out; everything okay?"

"Fine," Root responds with a smile. Shaw's eyes harden.

"It's about your uncle isn't it," she says, and Root's eyes flicker with mild surprise.  _What, so I can't read her but she can just pick up anything on me?_ "It is," she presses, leaning in towards Root. Butterflies invade Root's chest, making it hard to breathe. "He doesn't like you being out," she concludes, and Root sighs.

"Does it  _matter_?" She all but snaps.  _I do not want to have to worry about this, not now._  "I'm old enough to take care of myself. Agreed?" A small smirk creeps onto Shaw's lips, and it leaves Root biting her own.

"I don't  _know_ ," Shaw tells her with an air of somewhat serious humor. "I can be  _very_  dangerous." Root's heart jumps into her throat, and she all but coughs trying to force it back down. As soon as she thinks she's got it handled, Shaw gives her the slightest one-over, and Root is thrown into the same asphyxiating situation all over again. "But, I think you could be dangerous as well," Shaw tells her, and Root can't help but grin.

"You have  _no_  idea." Something like satisfaction crosses Shaw's face, and she sits smugly back on her stool. They stare at each other a minute, eyes locked and breath held and minds entirely blank.

_Smash!_

The sound of shattering glass and a plastic tray clattering to the ground catches them both off guard. Root whips her head towards the bar just to see a waitress falling, hands tossed out before her as the contents of her tray go sailing upwards. With inhuman speed, she reaches over the counter, catching the woman by the wrist and hauling her back upright with no effort at all. From the corner of her eye, she can see Shaw's quizzical eyes on her, trying to sort out how she reacted so promptly.

_Blood._

It enters Root's nose with a metallic tang, opening all of her airways and setting free a beast in her stomach. Her eyes flutter closed as her body relaxes entirely, the scent dizzying. She feels like a Great White, that single blood drop beckoning her inner frenzy to come out and play. Nothing- no matter how hungry she'd ever been- had ever drove her this insane. _Nothing except..._

Her eyes burst open as she snaps her gaze Shaw's way. Shaw is still peering at her, but Root doesn't have the time to blush, nor the pulse anyway. Glancing down towards the wooden countertop, she finds the devil. One of the glasses that had fallen off the tray shattered before them and drug a clean slice through Shaw's palm. Root watches, hands gripping the bar as the dark crimson trickles from the cut, leaking down her hand and pooling on the table. She can feel her eyes turn red as her hunger becomes too unbearable. Too overwhelming.

"You gonna faint or something?" Shaw asks, yet it sounds distant in Root's ears. It's a nearly impossible task to peel her eyes from Shaw's hand, yet once she does, the delectable smell only grows stronger. She can feel her muscles beginning to shake. "Ease up on the countertop,  _would_  you?" Shaw asks, almost crossly. "Before you  _break_  it?" Peering down, Root finds her fingernails plunged deep into the wood. Sheepishly, she pulls back, taking note of the deep gashes her fingers have left behind. Root runs her tongue over her lips, mouth salivating.

"If you're going to black out you can take a walk," Shaw tells her, voice not as harsh as before. "I'm just going to have to grab a couple bandaids." Root shakes her head, knowing that's not good enough.  _The smell has to stop now._ It's like a wolf howling inside of her, clawing its way out to bear its dangerous canines. _No, the smell_ has _to stop now._

Acting as if she's scratching her nose, Root runs her finger along her tongue, then grabs Shaw's hand quickly, not allowing herself time to think. She can feel Shaw's bones groan under the pressure and releases slightly, not wanting to shatter them.

" _Ew_ ," Shaw spits, lip curling in disgust. "Why is your hand  _wet_?" Shaw tries to yank it back, but Root holds fast.

"Trust me," is all she says, then another part of her snaps.

Throwing her head to the right, nearly snapping her neck in the process, Root shuts her eyes tight, something like mental agony ripping through her system. Her jaw pops as she stretches it open, sucking in a silent gasp. Her fangs descend rapidly, slicing through the soft tissue of her gums and begging to be put into appliance. She can feel the blood seeping between her fingers, can smell it as it drowns her, yet doesn't dare look. Can't look.  _Won't_  look. Her muscles coil into dense balls, ready to spring out of place with even the slightest tap.

Finally, seconds that pass like hours tick by, and Root can feel the blood starting to dry on her hand, no longer flowing. Slowly, her muscles untangle fiber by fiber, and her eyes open once more. Pressing her lips together, she takes a few steady breaths, waiting for her fangs to vanish before she turns back to Shaw. She can barely look at her hand- cold and white and smeared with blood- as she shifts it cautiously away from Shaw's. Past the thin film of blood, Root can see that the gash is healed entirely. Shaw too, catches it, for she turns her hand over a few times before clenching and unclenching her fist. Turning her searing gaze onto Root, Shaw's eyes burn with a demanding fire hot enough to singe Root's skin.

"How did you do that," she insists, and Root swallows. Swiping a bar towel off the counter, she rubs her left hand clean until three layers of skin have gone. She wants to pour some alcohol on it as well, but doesn't have the arm width to reach the bottles lining the far wall. And so, with a lopsided smile that she hopes is more adorable than abhorrent, she responds,

"It's a long story."

___________\ We'll Find You /____________

But apparently, Shaw had all the time in the world. After a few more drinks Root's jumping nerves quelled, and they decided to take to the streets. The air outside had dropped a few degrees, and Root relished the chilly atmosphere as it crawled up her skin. Being since deceased, her body temperature fluctuates to room temperature wherever she is, but she preferred the night's cold chill. It's always sobered her up, leaving a tingle on the tip of her nose, reminding her of how life once felt.

Nonetheless, stuffing her hands into her pant pockets, Root closed her eyes, allowing the shadows to swallow her.

_'Aren't you cold?' Shaw'd asked, tugging her coat on. Root shook her head, brown hair fanning out over her shoulders. Even though the chill reached her, her body could still not register the shiver it would leave on anyone living._

_They'd gone a little further, the crunch of dry leaves blaring in Root's ears, when she could feel Shaw's eyes on her. With every step the gaze intensified, until Root began to wriggle under her gaze. Finally, she cracked, embarking on a cautious plight that quickly crumbled into a train wreck of words. All the secrets she'd had to contain came rushing forward, and she hadn't realized how relieving it would be until everything was gone. A weight seemingly lifted from her shoulders, pressure draining graciously from her chest. Then, to top it all off, Shaw was unfazed. She wasn't wide-eyed with fear, nor running in the other direction in search of a pitchfork. She didn't even take a step away. She merely nodded when Root was through, gears turning behind her eyes as she processed the new information. Then, she pursed her lips, swore at the weather, and decided to make a pit stop at her apartment._

**Rule #4 : Never Expose Yourself**

As Root enters the lobby, she can feel herself humming with electricity. The gravity of what she's done finally settles in, yet- what grips her more than anything- is how accepting Shaw is.  _Does she still think I'm just a run away from the psych ward?_  She hopes not, but can't promise herself anything. They step into an ancient elevator, its black doors grinding as they squeal shut, then it kicks up to a jerky start. No music plays to rouse the silence between them, just the constant whine of the cables as they struggle to plow skywards.

Root's fingers dance against the fabric of her jeans, unsure what to do with themselves while her jaw wiggles side to side, teeth grinding. Her chest is uncharacteristically tight, and all of her begs to peek over Shaw's way. At last, she caves, gaze turning to the right. She can see each detail in Shaw's profile, and she can't help the flutter behind her ribcage at seeing the way the elevator light falls across her face. Suddenly, Shaw stirs.

She turns to look at Root, who instantly snaps her head straight ahead, face feeling hot like a middle schooler caught staring at her crush. She presses her lips together tightly, trying not to feel Shaw's smirk at her side.

Finally, the elevator doors jolt open, and Root steps out, needing a moment to hold together her thoughts. She takes a long look out the window at the end of the hall, buildings melting into her own reflection. To her absolute mortification and distaste, she watches the vibrant amber of her eyes fizzle out as a murky maroon makes itself known. It reminds her of rust and blood, and after blinking a few times, she finds she cannot shake it. Mouth and throat feeling unexpectedly parched, she starts after Shaw down the hall.

She reaches Shaw's door just as Shaw finishes unlocking it, throwing it open and walking in. Root follows suit, but stops at the seam in the carpet, unable to force herself through the door. It feels as if heavy chains have coiled themselves around her arms and legs, dragging her back. Shaw turns, takes a glance at her, and the sliver of a half smile flickers onto her mouth.

"Do you need an invitation?" Shaw asks, obviously amused by the question. Root narrows her eyes, although she is unable to keep the grin from growing on her face.

"It would be  _nice_ ," Root responds, a hint of affection rising in her voice. Shaw stands there a moment more, watching Root be unable to enter with a humorous flame in her eyes, before she gestures with her hand to come in. Spell broken, the chains evaporate, and Root steps in quickly.

"So what's up with your eyes?" Shaw asks, closing the door and flicking on a dim hallway light. Root clasps her hands, thumbs pressing together tightly as she tries to form the right explanation.

"They change color depending upon mood and surroundings," Root replies at last, and Shaw's head tilts the slightest bit to the side.

"What do they mean now?" Root rolls her tongue across her teeth, having to pry the words away from her head's stubborn hands.

"Means I need to eat," she gets out at last. "Soon." Shaw nods, licking her bottom lip in thought before shrugging off her light jacket. Feeling self-conscious over her shifting eyes, Root turns away, forcing herself to analyze every detail of the hall. The small, nearly burnt out light dangling between two doorways, the cranberry popcorn walls and each of their every bubble. Her mind drifted slightly, wondering where she could find a meal and when. While she would always choose bagged blood when given the option, she didn't feel any guilt in snatching a little from the living when need be.  _I wonder who lives next door?_  Root thinks to herself, honing her ears in, blocking out every drip of water in the pipes and gust of air pouring from the vents, straining to get a feel for Shaw's neighbors.  _How many of them would be home? They've got to be asleep, right?_

Just as she turns to ask Shaw about them, she stops dead, face turning up in a dazed manner. Again, she couldn't help be taken aback by Shaw's overwhelming beauty, her eyes the most captivating of all. She focuses in on them, paralyzed, until Shaw shifts, and Root is brought back to reality. She finds that Shaw is pulling the right side of her shirt collar over, tilting her head to the left. At once, Root can feel the heat radiating from her and holds her breath.

"Go for it," Shaw tells her, as if she's offering Root her old jeans instead of her neck. Root can feel her head shaking at once, first mechanic, then vigorous.

"No.  _No_ ," she responds, mortification trimming her words. Shaw rolls her eyes in a condescending manner, somehow managing to make Root feel like the one who's lost their mind.

"Kinkier things have happened," Shaw assures her in a flat tone, and Root raises an eyebrow, intrigued. Realizing the blunder, Shaw's ears begin to burn, and Root can pick up a solid emotion from her for the first time: fluster. "Kidding," Shaw comments defensively, eyes filming over with annoyance. Still, it melts the tense thoughts Root was having before, and she takes a fluid step forward, eyes smiling.

"Oh, I'm  _sure_ ," Root purrs sarcastically, pushing her hair behind her shoulder and slowly making her last step behind Shaw; Root can't help the underlying trepidation that clings like thousand pound weights to her ankles.

"Just do this before I change my mind and drive a stake through your chest," Shaw grumbles, and Root gives a mellifluous chuckle. She leans in closer to Shaw's ear from behind, and the feeling of her radiating body heat all but burns Root's otherwise chilled face.

"You really think a little piece of  _wood_  can kill me?" Root taunts, laugh still in her voice, although her mind is already growing fuzzy. Everything about Shaw is far too tempting, including the scent she gives off- the same one that drew Root to her in the first place. She exhales slowly, cold breath brushing against Shaw's exposed neck, and even with her heightened senses, she barely catches Shaw's microscopic shutter.

"By the sound of your  _tone_?" Shaw remarks, voice slightly more tense than before. "I'm gonna have to go with no." Root smiles; knowing Shaw can't see it makes it grow a little wider. Then, a thought foggily makes its way to her.

"Uh... might hurt a little," Root warns, serious tone back in her voice for the moment. "It'll be less painful if you let me in your head. If you just- just kinda  _open_  it a bit- I can numb the spot." Shaw shakes her head, and Root's heart lands in her throat as her jawline comes within a hair width of Root's nose.

"No offense but... I don't trust people easily.  _Especially_  one's I've just meant."  _People_ , Root muses to herself. It'd been a while since anyone had considered her ' _people_.'

Nonetheless, she balled up her courage, still unsure of it all. She can feel her fangs extending yet again, and after a moment of bated breath, she allows herself to do what she'd been avoiding all night.

She bites Sameen Shaw.

Instantly, she can feel warmth leaking past her teeth and pooling on her tongue. Shaw tenses, hand shooting back and gripping Root's leg in obvious surprise. After a second, her nails don't dig as far, and her muscles begin to uncoil, the initial shock dwindling. Root can feel herself reviving, her zapped energy returning as the hunger in her stomach recedes back to the farthest corners.

Swiftly, with a sort of awkward promptness, Root pulled back, fangs tucking back into her gums. Shaw brought her hand away from Root's leg, running her fingers gingerly over the spot. To her confusion, there is no mark.

"Histatin," Root answers her unasked question, and Shaw turns to face her. "It's in saliva, it's just that it works in a higher concentration with us than you."

"Coulda used  _you_  at the hospital," Shaw jokes, running her hand over her neck again as to give a moment's awe.

Root's phone rings, startling them both, and Root slips it from her pocket.  _Harold_. A slight sneer twitching onto her lip, she ignores it before freezing, eyes locked on the time.

_It's five thirty in the morning._

Out of instinct, Root gazes wildly past Shaw towards the far window. To her utter relief, the blinds are drawn shut. Picking up on Root's actions, a silent chuckle surfaces in Shaw's eyes.

"Let me  _guess_ ," She asks with cruel humor. "You burn up in sunlight?" Root smiles tightly, although her wryness at the comment disintegrates with Shaw's smile. It's brilliant and quick, but Root is quicker, taking a mental snapshot of it.

"Sun-up at 6:54," Root tells her, having the charts burned into her mind's eye.

**Rule #5 : Never get Caught in the Sun**

Just the same as with tanning beds or anything else that simulates the effects of the sun's intense UV rays, Harold had taught her that the sun touching them is the equivalent of peeps in a microwave. The intense heat coupled with swelling; bloating as your skin splits, coming undone like the stitches of an overstuffed teddy bear; insides forcing their way out as the outsides recede in; every organ like a balloon filled to the brim and past until they all burst one by one; then, unrecoverable death finally ensues.

The mental image makes her shutter.

"I have to head out," she tells Shaw, whose gaze hardens at once.

" _Or_  you could stay here." Root's jaw drops open the smallest bit, not expecting that response. Harold's warnings echo in her ears until she is unable to take it.

"That  _might_  not be a good idea," Root responds.

"So you'd rather become a human  _torch_?" Shaw asks. While there are a million things wrong with that statement, Root deems it worthless to correct her.

"I'm fairly fast," Root assures her; still, Shaw remains unconvinced.

"Better safe than sorry," she tells her, taking a step in Root's direction, something Root can't quite place storming behind her mahogany eyes. She swallows hard, stepping back and trying to find anything to convince herself not to stay.

"It's a Wednesday," Root nearly stammers, nerves racing like top fuel dragsters on the track. Shaw's eyes flare with an amusement that leaves Root breathless, all the while she continues her smooth advance. Root isn't used to this. Usually, she'd be the one entrancing people, luring them in and leaving them locked in place; however, with Shaw it’s the exact opposite.

"What are we,  _school kids_?" Shaw quips back. Root backs into the wall, palms pressed against the raised paint and breath coming in a little more shallow than before as Shaw advances.

"No..." Root replies slowly, trying to find words. Any words. "But you have work tomorrow." Shaw closes the space before them, making it impossible for Root to breathe. There is less than six inches of space between their faces, and Root can hear the drum of Shaw's heart as it picks up speed.

"I got fired today, remember?" Shaw questions, although her voice sounds as if she knows she's got Root trapped. Root closes her eyes, kicking herself for not thinking of it. She wracks her brain, millions of little hands pushing their way through every crevice of her mind for anything else.  _There has to be something else_. "What is it?" Shaw asks, and with much surprise, she finds Shaw's voice much louder- closer- than she'd expected.

"I think I'm out of excuses," Root responds slowly, opening her eyes. Shaw's face fills her entire line of sight; it's the best thing she's seen in all her years of living.

"Good," Shaw responds, a hint of relief in her tone. "I was starting to get tired of hearing you talk." Root laughs, but just barely, not having enough oxygen left in her lungs for anything more than a whisper.

Shaw kisses her.

For some reason Root expected it to be soft- she was dead wrong. Instead, it takes her by storm, leaving her mind blank and nerve endings frayed. Her back's pressed against the wall and Shaw's hands are gripping the collar of her shirt and she feels herself giving back. It's pyrophoric to say the least, as she feels fire flowing through her veins. Everywhere Shaw touches is set ablaze, until everything blurs into a four alarm fire in an oil refinery. She's never felt so  _alive_.

Shaw begins to draw back, but Root moves with her, wrapping an arm around her waist. Her lungs burn for air, yet she's never found breathing more worthless. Still, Shaw continues until they've finally broken apart- if only by a centimeter- and color explodes like fireworks behind Root's eyes. Her overactive senses have hit a new level of stimulation, to the point where they are over run and overwhelmed and so terribly content.

"What do you want to do now?" Root breathes out, unable to keep the small shake from her voice as her mouth tingles. She leaves her eyes shut, listening to the sound of Shaw's breathing and the tick of her heart; she can feel Shaw's smirk a mile away.

"I have a few things it mind," she murmurs back.

**Author's Note:**

> new word count record (infinite slew of question marks???)
> 
> Confirmed!!!!! new word count record by 269


End file.
